


i'm gonna take care of things

by hairtiesoncuffs



Series: falling out of conversations [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Everything Gets Worse, Gen, Hallucination Lucifer (Supernatural) | Hallucifer, Introspection, Nothing gets better, Sam Winchester Has PTSD, and meg is there, and yeet, basically cas took lucifer, but brotherly moments i guess, castiel doesn't know quite what to do but he's also trying, dean winchester is trying his best here, sam winchester has hell-related trauma, the hallucinations, uhh i'm so sorry i'm tired and can't tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:00:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26730301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairtiesoncuffs/pseuds/hairtiesoncuffs
Summary: And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That he feels things? Angels don’t have souls; they have grace. There is a difference and Castiel has been aware of it ever since he inhabited this vessel, this Jimmy Novak and felt the man’s soul leave his body. (Had the man not gone to Heaven, Castiel is sure he would have left the vessel and gone to retrieve the man’s soul, send it to its rightful place and never dare set foot on Earth again.) He felt the absence, felt the loss, and soldiered on. Because he was an angel. That was his job.7x17 au because i'm trashtitle from the lyrics of 'taking care of things' by cavetown
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel & Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: falling out of conversations [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1906321
Comments: 7
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeet this one is also chaptered, probably going to be two chapters but idk
> 
> this took me a really long time oops 
> 
> trigger warnings for (in order) abusive relationships, hallucinations, psychological torment, mentions of torture, implications of non-consensual relationships, more mentions of torture, i think just suffering in general, and the typical stuff for spn and this au series 
> 
> adjkfs i really really hope you like this :)

They don’t like him having humans. In all of his time before the Winchesters, Castiel had only been to Earth on six occasions. Always with the Garrison, always on assignment. He had always obeyed, no matter what his instincts told him. 

(It was just a handful of people, small and something to be forgotten, had it not been that he could not forget about God’s creation, about his mission. A man in China. A small child in Nigeria. A girl in Brazil. Others that lie further back and had situations that he can’t completely recall, but their faces are clear in his mind.) 

He’d tried to do the right thing. He’d tried so hard to be the angel all humans thought he was, selfless and pure and forgiving but vengeful when need be. Castiel has walked through those “pearly gates” (not his words) as many times as the next angel, has been there for (almost) his entire existence, and still he does not entirely feel that he belongs. It’s surrounded by the humans, these small, flawed beings where he thinks he is better. 

The last time he was on Earth, it was to eliminate a Nephilim. They succeeded in that mission, but Castiel is fairly certain that success shouldn’t be a slick, oily feeling. 

And then Jimmy Novak. 

And now, the Winchesters. 

They make success feel okay. 

It’s not light. It will never be light, never an easy weight to carry because success always, every time, comes out of a problem. For the Winchesters, usually the problem involves someone’s death. But knowing that they have defeated the monster and taken away that threat… it makes it feel more genuine. 

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That he feels things? Angels don’t have souls; they have grace. There is a difference and Castiel has been aware of it ever since he inhabited this vessel, this Jimmy Novak and felt the man’s soul leave his body. (Had the man not gone to Heaven, Castiel is sure he would have left the vessel and gone to retrieve the man’s soul, send it to its rightful place and never dare set foot on Earth again.) He felt the absence, felt the loss, and soldiered on. Because he was an angel. That was his job. 

But he feels. He feels things, emotions, can relate to humans and while he doesn’t know exactly what it’s like, he can sense it and is slowly feeling it increase. It’s overwhelming at times and sometimes he gets the urge to hide himself in the darkness, wait for this day to pass and the next and the next and the next until everything just stops. He can’t even imagine dealing with the full array of emotions humans offer and doesn’t want to think about the ways that Sam and Dean  _ don’t. _

(Too much heart was always Castiel’s problem.) 

Out of all that, out of everything he has heard and seen and felt, this is probably the worst. 

Lucifer is here, day and night, throwing everything he’s done back in his face and laughing about it. Castiel can remember him while in Heaven and doesn’t recall him being quite this vindictive, not this angry, and it hurts. Lucifer was like a big brother to them all, teasing and fun and close with all of his siblings, older or younger. He played games with Gabriel and had serious discussions with Raphael and butted heads with Michael once the humans were created, their fights shaking the very foundations of Heaven and leaving the rest of them to care for the younger angels as God watched over them, lip curling in disgust at the way Lucifer refused to bow down to his best creation. Castiel can go through the instants it took for God to throw Lucifer into Hell (because that’s how life is measured, in instants of laughter and punches and tears) and the way Lucifer was angry and looked so betrayed and refused to go quietly. He fought the whole way down but never once lashed out at anyone except for himself, making sure not to hurt any of his siblings because that’s who he was, someone good and caring and always looking out for everyone else until then. (He can’t help but be painfully reminded of Sam, the way he is said to have fought against John and how exactly he can align with Lucifer, if all events were compared, because this is how it is, these are the vessels, this is what the Winchesters were originally built for.) His brother used to be rebellious and determined but not angry and unforgiving and  _ manipulative  _ down to the last bone in his vessel’s body. 

It’s a change he isn’t prepared for, though he should have seen it coming. 

“You keep leaving them, you know, you keep leaving and leaving and leaving and there’s probably going to be a day where you don’t come back, no matter how loud their calls are,” he says, God’s favored son, and Castiel doesn’t need to ask who ‘they’ is. “Because you never stayed, Castiel, you never have. You left everything when you chose to fall, and you’re leaving what you’ve made down here for some stupid, flawed, broken human. Don’t you want to hear his screams? 

Castiel has heard enough desperation and begging and raw sounds torn from throats that can’t take anymore for a lifetime. He can still remember pulling Dean out of Hell, healing the scars that covered the man and listening to the screams that lingered on his skin, some from his own torture and some from the people he’d exacted his revenge on. (The noise in Hell is deafening, and Castiel understands why so many souls down there get corrupted and turn into demons.) He remembers grabbing Sam as fast as he could from the Cage, tearing him from the inside of the bars but leaving his most vulnerable part open to Lucifer's gaze, allowing his brother to get a look at every part of Sam that no one should ever see but Dean. Castiel was even grateful that he got Sam out so fast and never even thought to check for the soul, something he can normally sense in a human, but he supposes he’d just been too tired, too desperate. Not that it’s an excuse. 

Thing is, he doesn’t say much these days. It’s not like anyone would really listen, so Castiel just doesn’t find the point of speaking. Still, he pulls himself together enough to mutter that it’s worth it. 

Lucifer grins, sharp and brittle, like it could shatter if Castiel says the wrong thing. “What was that?” 

“It’s worth it. They’re worth it,” he says again, drawing Meg’s attention and piquing the concern of the demon. (No need to say who ‘they’ is this time, either.) 

“Was it, though?” Lucifer asks, pretending to think. “I’m not so sure. Little do you know that you’ve done nothing for that...” He struggles to find the right word for a second, settling on correcting himself. “For my little  _ bitch.” _

“Clarence,” Meg interrupts, hand on his arm. “You good?” 

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, staring at the hallucination. Lucifer only smirks and starts walking around the room, lifting the lid on the lunch the nurses have so kindly provided. It’s most likely a sandwich, as always, not that it even matters to him. 

“Ooh, maggots. I know this won’t have the same effect on you as Sammy since you don’t have to eat, but it’s still disgusting. I mean, look at them wriggle,” he says, and then doesn’t stop talking. It’s a constant soundtrack, one that won’t go away even if Castiel tries to tune it out. It’s not like he’s going out of his head or anything, it’s mostly just annoying to him, but he doesn’t want to picture what it was like for Sam, who Castiel can’t even imagine looking at Lucifer again without panicking. (And also, could Lucifer just stop using Dean’s nickname for his little brother?) 

“Seriously,” Meg says, voice loud enough to make it to his ears. “You’re on edge.” 

“I’m not on the edge of anything,” he says, then opts to try for sarcasm. “Though I suppose having your brother who you watched get thrown into the deepest pits of Hell come back only to start singing rock music will do that to you,” Castiel allows a small smile to cross his face. As much as he dislikes being watched over by a demon, he must admit that Meg is decent company. She’s quiet when needed, at least. 

Meg nods. “What’s the opening act?” 

“Stairway to Heaven.” 

“Your first concert, I assume.” 

“It’s not what I expected.” 

A laugh and nothing else from her. 

Castiel turns over and stares at the wall, ignoring Lucifer’s inquiries about how long they’ve been together. 

He is an angel. He doesn’t sleep. (Or eat, but that’s beside the point.)

All the same, he dreams. Whenever he closes his eyes, Lucifer is projecting images into his brain, sometimes them being of himself and everything he’s done, sometimes of Dean and the ways he’s hurt him, and most often, of Sam. 

Sam, falling for seconds, minutes, hours, days (it’s impossible to tell, really) and landing in the Cage. Sam, lying prone on the floor and Lucifer’s grace is extracted from Sam’s body right before it gets pulled out and Sam’s soul being shown to Lucifer, who’s used his grace to make himself corporeal and appear as Nick. Sam, meat hooks holding him up and Lucifer snaps each of his ribs, one by one, shoving them into his lungs. Sam, screaming with air he doesn’t have and begging for him to stop, but nothing does. It goes on and on and on and it never once stops. 

Sometimes, they’re bad enough that Castiel can’t physically breathe for imagining the pain. If he were capable of crying, he’s sure he would be doing so. Unfortunately, there’s no way for him to release these feelings in a way that would satisfy him (because angels aren’t supposed to  _ have _ feelings, how many times must he be brutally reminded of this) and while he knows that it’s not really happening to him, it happened to Sam and that’s bad enough. He feels like he’s intruding, watching parts of his friend that he isn’t supposed to see because this is Sam and he is vulnerable and he’s worked so hard to make it seem like he’s okay to Dean, who worries and then worries more. He’s doing the right thing, he was supposed to take Sam’s suffering away and then put it onto himself. 

So why, he wonders, does it feel so bad inside? 

Castiel knows exactly what he took away. He took away a plug, a cork, whatever was stopping Sam from properly going through these memories. These, he thinks, are some of the memories that Sam struggled to make it through and now that he has taken them (not away, he knows, but he is the one in possession of and watching them before Sam can. It’s comparable to a parent checking to see if a movie is alright for their child to see by watching it first), he must bear witness to the events that caused Lucifer’s mental manifestation. 

Penance. 

Exactly like he said, and despite how overwhelming it is, Castiel feels like he should be doing something, anything else than let Lucifer stick his finger into Sam’s brain and pull out memories for Castiel to witness before the Winchester has even been through them himself. 

He voices none of this to Meg. She simply sits, waiting for any sign of change in him. Castiel can’t stop getting trapped in his own head, in these thoughts and memories and hallucinations anymore than he supposes Sam could. He knows that he isn’t entirely present, knows that he will curl into himself and wishes he could fold his body again and again and again until he became nothing because the skin of Jimmy Novak is on fire as Lucifer strokes it and Castiel’s mind falls apart over and over and over. 

(This can’t be all that’s left to his existence, but all the same, here he is.)

Four days have passed and he hasn’t slept because he doesn’t need to sleep and he hasn’t eaten because he doesn’t need to eat but he feels like this was Sam (it always comes back to Sam) and the men in white coats, white like everything in this place, are worried about him. They walk in and out, ask him questions he doesn’t answer and just generally hover and give him medicine that does nothing because drugs don’t affect his vessel, not anymore. Still, he takes the medicine because he is the crazy man in the white clothes in the white room with the white walls and white bed and white sheets and on the fifth day he wraps his tongue around the word so much it feels numb in his mouth and he can’t imagine saying white again, so he thinks it until it’s no longer anything and he is covered in nothing. 

“Oh, brother,” Lucifer says, leaning against the table. “Look how far you’ve fallen.” 

Then, one day, it changes. 

He doesn’t understand it, but Lucifer is standing near the door with his arms crossed and, if Castiel didn’t know better, he’d say that the archangel was pouting. (Actually, thinking about it, Lucifer really is pouting. It doesn’t matter if Castiel thinks he should know better than this, but seriously. It’s Lucifer. Nothing is below him.) 

“What’s happening?” Castiel risks asking, shifting his gaze from the walls to finally meet Lucifer’s eyes. Meg isn’t in the room right now, probably getting the medicine he’s been prescribed or something. He couldn’t care less about her right now. “What are you doing?” 

“It’s more of what I’m not doing,” Lucifer mutters, features pinched in annoyance. “Figure it out yourself, little brother. It just seems like I won’t be able to hang around as long as I want to.” 

“Does that mean… you’re leaving?” The confusion is fogging up his thoughts. “How does that work?” 

“It shouldn’t!” he snaps, and not for the first time, Castiel reminds himself that it’s just a projection, that it can’t physically hurt him. Lucifer takes a deep breath, appearing to try and calm himself, then brings his icy eyes to Castiel’s. “Your mind is growing past the memories you borrowed from Sam.” 

“And that’s supposed to mean what, exactly?” Castiel asks, feeling his grace tremble much like humans compare their blood to boiling when they become angry. “That I have no use for them anymore?” 

Lucifer tuts. “You were the smart one, were you not?” 

He almost growls, wishing he could put an angel blade right through Lucifer’s sardonic smile, though it wouldn’t do anything. If even the Colt can’t kill him, why would a mere angel blade do the job? “And your games were never quite as fun as you wanted them to be.” 

“Balthazar was a sore loser, alright? That had nothing to do with me.” 

Castiel shakes his head as a girl with red hair shows up at his door. She’s kind of small, bandages covering what he assumes are healing wounds, and she just stares at him. 

“Can I… help you?” he asks after a minute of this. 

A small smile quirks at the side of her mouth. “I was just thinking, it’s nothing important.” She uncrosses then recrosses her arms. 

He tries to meet her eyes. “You can ask me something, if you want to. I don’t mind.” 

She nods. “I, uh. I’m Marin.” 

“Cas— Clarence.” He clears his throat, trying to diffuse the tension that’s quickly filling the room. “I’m Clarence. It’s nice to meet you.” 

Marin gives him a half-pleased smile, cocking her head to the side a bit. “Not often you meet someone here with social abilities.” 

“I take it that I’m not what you were expecting.” 

“Not really. I just… do you know what happened to the guy who was here before?” 

His breath stutters. “Who?” 

“Uh, his name was Sam. Tall, had shaggy hair?” she asks. “Like, freaky tall.” 

“No, I don’t think so. Was he checked out?” 

Marin shrugs. “I hope. Not often we get a missing patient, but typically they’d call the police about it. I haven’t noticed anything different around here, so I assume he was. It’s weird though.” 

“How?” Castiel asks. 

“The guy wasn’t sleeping. He hadn’t slept in over a week, clearly, and he was seeing Satan. Like, honest-to-God  _ Satan,  _ or at least that what he thought.” Lucifer perks up in his corner, standing up just a bit straighter. Marin continues. “Last I saw him, he was headed to electroshock therapy. He was only here for a few days, and even if he did recover, they wouldn’t let him go right away. I’m just worried about him. He, uh, did something for me. It helped. A lot. I’m scheduled to get out of here in a few weeks.” A grin. “I don’t know. I just wish I knew what happened to him.” 

“I’d guess that he’s alright,” Castiel says. “I mean, if no one’s looking for him, then he must have gotten out of here just fine.” 

“You wish,” Lucifer crows, clapping his hands together. “Oh, boy, you have no idea what’s happening to that kid.” 

(It’s a mental projection, it’s not real, Lucifer is just preying on his fears. Castiel doesn’t have to worry about them, he did the right thing, he fixed it. He did. He had to. 

But is there another explanation for why Lucifer seems weaker now? 

_ Your mind is growing past the memories you borrowed from Sam. _

Does this mean— 

Did he— 

Castiel only— 

_ Sam— _

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough, he didn’t really take it away, he just took away what was stopping it. He knew this, but did he ever think about what it actually meant? It was a blockage that he took away and then held onto, but now it’s crumbling in his hands and it’s crumbling in Sam’s mind and everything is falling apart again. Castiel didn’t do a thing for Sam, he just took away what was stopping him from getting to the memories and now Sam has to deal with them without a filter, without anything keeping the horrors out of his mind. 

Does Dean even know? How bad is it at this very moment?) 

He’s dimly aware of Marin trying to grab his attention and Meg coming into the room, forcing her out by saying that he’s having an episode, it’s fine, just give him space. “Clarence, talk to me,” she says, her tone not of warning but of concern. 

“I…” 

“Clarence.” 

“I couldn’t save him,” he says, looking at his hands, healing hands, “I couldn’t save him.” 

The call comes less than a week later. 

Lucifer is practically gone, only able to present himself to Castiel for mere minutes and even then, his form flickers in and out of his sight. Meg’s stopped even pretending to give him the pills, instead telling the doctors that he’ll be fine. He appreciates it; the atoms of the pills don’t exactly have a pleasant taste. Marin doesn’t come back to talk again. 

Dean does. 

Obviously, it’s not physical, but the prayer is loud and desperate enough to make it feel that way. Castiel has been here for a few weeks, he thinks, time doesn’t exactly feel linear right now, but it’s enough time that Lucifer doesn’t try anymore and simply warns him about Sam. He’s been hoping it wasn’t true, but… 

_ I don’t care what the hell is happening over on your side, if you’re still seeing Lucifer, which I doubt because Sam’s seeing him again. I think. I’m not sure, but Cas, come on. It’s bad, the kid’s panicking and I had to knock him unconscious, he’s not getting better like you said he would, come on, please, Cas, this is exactly what I’ve been worried about and we thought it was better but it’s not so hurry. Please. Cas.  _

Dean’s prayer hasn’t even ended before Castiel leaves the room and reappears in a motel room, with peeling wallpaper but a clean floor and bed where Sam is lying next to, blood oozing from his nose as Dean looks up at the sound of his wings. “Cas.” 

“I’m here,” he says, watching as Lucifer laughs at the sight of Sam on the floor then disappears entirely. “What do you need?” 

“An explanation, first off,” Dean says, sounding so familiar and so exactly as he had when Castiel saw him last that it hurts. “What happened? I thought you fixed it.” 

“I thought I did too,” he admits, watching as Sam groans, swimming to the surface of awareness and fear immediately floods his eyes. “However…” He hesitates. 

“Damnit, Cas, just spit it out. It doesn’t help Sam to keep it to yourself,” Dean snaps, grabbing Sam’s hand. “Hey, you with me?” 

Sam manages a nod, pressing the free hand to his temple and wincing at the light. “For now,” he breathes, not even noticing Castiel. 

“Hang on,” Dean tells him, pressing into the scar. “Tell me if you start slipping again. I need you as here as I can get you.” 

“Not planning on going anywhere,” the younger brother replies, barely holding a grimace off his face. 

“Good,” Dean says, clapping him on the back then turning back to Castiel with worried eyes. “Explain.  _ Now.”  _

He nods. “I was supposed to take away the memories. The ones that were causing him the greatest torment, but instead I tore down another wall.” 

“Another wall? How was there— What does that mean?” Dean asks, glaring. 

“Sam may have lost the Wall that Death put in place, but his mind built another, far more tenuous one to hold back the memories that he couldn’t deal with. Those were presented to him in the form of Lucifer while his mind was processing them, meaning that his hallucinations were a better result than him looking at those memories, they’re so horrific.” He pauses, swallowing hard before continuing. “Essentially, I took that way and started… playing with the pieces, so to say. But they kept crumbling until they were dust and Lucifer finally disappeared. I saw some of his time in the Cage, Dean, it’s…” 

“Beyond words,” Dean finishes. “I know. He hasn’t told me much but Sam’s been having flashbacks of his time. He’s been dealing, until now, and it’s just not getting better.” 

“I don’t know if there’s anything else I can do, Sam might just have to beat this on his own,” Castiel confesses, watching as Sam starts patting Dean’s arm frantically. 

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m here,” Dean says gently, unconsciously rubbing his thumb over Sam’s palm. “You’re going to be okay.” 

Sam shakes his head, focusing on Castiel with wet hazel eyes. “You… you saw?” 

(His voice is so small, like someone took it and tore it up and then scattered the pieces, leaving Sam to try and put them back together into something that can be recognizable as himself when he couldn’t. It’s shredded, lost, and so young but lacking any innocence Sam might have had. This is the kid Dean’s always tried to protect, always will protect, and Cas can feel himself ache with love for the two of them.) 

“Not much,” Cas tells him, trying to be kind, unsure if he should give voice to his next words. “But enough.” 

“How bad—” 

“Sam. Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to see you as less because of your time in the Cage. No one else I know could deal with that kind of torment,” he says honestly, reaching a tentative hand out and placing it on the man’s shoulder. “You put up with him for almost two centuries, Sam, and I know what you’ve done since. No one will ever see you as weak.” 

“You got out,” Dean tells him next. “You got out, and you survived, Sammy, and you’re still here and kicking ass. That’s more than anyone can say, that’s more than  _ anyone  _ we know can say! You beat  _ Lucifer.  _ I—” He takes a deep breath, meets Sam’s gaze. “You’re my baby brother, and I’m proud of it.” 

Sam looks at them with watery eyes and a tired smile. “Love you too, jerk.” 

“Bitch.” 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big surprise i'm a suckage human here's the other part 
> 
> two more fics after this, guys :) 
> 
> trigger warnings for (in order) flashbacks, hell, burning alive, technical insanity, really just a lot of mental issues, ptsd, i guess what could be interpreted as suicidal ideation though that wasn't what i was going for, a bit of emeto, trauma in general, and typical spn stuff. this one gets a little heavy
> 
> adsjifslk enjoy and feel free to leave a comment, i love feedback

Cas gets his first look at it all not even a day later. 

Sam wakes up screaming, guttural sounds Dean can’t make sense of but translates in Cas’s mind to their meaning before he realizes that Sam is speaking Enochian. It makes sense, in a twisted way, that Lucifer would speak in Enochian, that Michael would, the two of them forcing Sam to pick up on it, even if by accident. Briefly, Castiel wonders if Sam can read it before shaking his head and bringing himself back down, hovering as Dean shakes Sam to bring him back and only makes the screaming worse and then someone’s pounding at the door and it’s overwhelming and for a second he can swear he sees Lucifer in the corner of his vision before his fingers are at Sam’s temples and he’s lurching upwards and back into reality. 

(Cas very decidedly doesn’t think about how Sam was dreaming of a past reality, one that he’d been in much longer than his time on Earth.) 

“You’re okay,” Dean says to Sam, his new favorite words, and without looking away, says, “Cas, the door.” 

“Right,” he replies, walking over to it and opening it not enough for the guy to fully see inside, but just so that he can see at least that there are three of them in the room. “May I help you?” 

The person outside is a man, not extraordinarily tall or muscled, his brown hair sleep-mussed and eyes exhausted. “Everything alright in there?” 

“Everything’s _fine,”_ Dean snarls, hand on Sam’s bicep as the younger tries to remember how to breathe. “Go away.” 

“What he means is, it’s under control. Don’t worry,” Cas says with a tight smile. 

The guy still looks wary. “Are you sure? I mean, it was just—” 

“We’re peachy,” Dean cuts in, and Sam muffles a sob and leans into Dean’s shoulder in a clear expression of trust as Dean’s arm automatically snakes around him. “Come on, kiddo, deep breaths. Just a nightmare.” Sam nods without lifting his head and the guy outside backs off. 

“Alright, man. Take care, ’kay?” He steps back and Cas shuts the door in his face, turning back to Dean and speaking. 

“That was Enochian.” 

“What?” 

“Sam. He was speaking in Enochian.” 

“Where would he pick up— oh. Shit.” Dean looks at Sam. “You know Enochian?” 

“Can speak it,” Sam mumbles from inside Dean’s flannel, and the older brother runs a hand along Sam’s spine. “They made me—” A sharp breath and he ducks away even further. 

“Alright, hey, you’re good. No one’s going to make you do _anything,”_ Dean promises, pulling Sam closer and doing that thing that the two of them do, when one arm goes around the shoulders and the other brings the head in close, pressing it to whoever’s chest it is. In all of his life, Cas hasn’t seen something quite so… sequestering as that, a hug putting two people in such a vulnerable bubble. “I got you.” 

“You always do,” Sam agrees, letting Dean hold him. 

Cas waits for a moment, letting them have their space before interrupting as gently as he can, holding his fingers out. “May I?” At Sam’s wary look, he explains. “I just need to know what’s happening, and then we can try to figure out something to help you.” 

Sam takes a deep breath and nods, pulling away from Dean and sitting up straighter. (Cas has noted the way that Sam always slouches, always, whether standing or sitting, in an effort to look less intimidating. It’s a small fact that wouldn’t have touched him, not before Earth, because the angels were always just that, angels, and were supposed to be large and have a presence that would be noticed, but now that he’s down here he’s seen how small these beings are and remembers being surprised that Sam wouldn’t take advantage of that.) “How much are you going to see?” 

“I’m not sure,” Cas tells him. “It depends on how…” _How broken your mind is._ He can’t say that. Not to Sam. 

He forces a laugh, looking down at his scar. “How messed up I am? How twisted and cracked my head is?” 

“Sammy—” 

“Dean, don’t even try to deny it,” Sam interrupts. “You know that none of this is _okay._ You’ve known that none of it is okay, ever since the Leviathan attack, since before that when we were with Bobby and both of you got pissed at me.” 

“That doesn’t mean you’re broken, Sam,” Dean insists. “You’re recovering.” 

Sam scoffs and mutters something under his breath that sounds like Enochian but it’s too quiet for Cas to actually tell. He nods at the angel a second later, closing his eyes as Cas presses two fingers to his forehead and dives—

down 

down 

down 

and 

_in._

Cas doesn’t want to be able to say that he knows this (doesn’t want to say that he’s been inside Sam’s mind before, doesn’t doesn’t doesn’t) but, unfortunately, he can. The bitter cold is back, nipping at his fingertips and holding on tightly, though it seems less threatening this time around. Maybe because Cas knows what to expect. Maybe because he’s seen and been part of it. Maybe because Cas became so intimately familiar with this kind of freezing, the kind that burrows in and doesn’t let go until it’s opposite comes along and forces it out. (Or, he muses, the supposed opposite comes in and forces it to grow worse until he couldn’t even notice it anymore, when it just faded into the background and became little more than a nuisance.) 

It’s only a second of that chilling air before Cas is blasted with a wave of heat, his skin bubbling with burns as he watches from Sam’s perspective as his hands light on fire, hears it sizzle and lets the smell of burning flesh curl into his nose, feeling it as his face is licked by hungry flames and Lucifer stands to the side and grins. “We’re going to have fun, Sammy.” 

Sam breathes hard, gritting his teeth, staring down at his fingers for another couple seconds, the heat getting worse and dancing around his lips before he finally lets any sound out, and when he it’s a deep shout, full of pain but not any of the true agony of the Cage yet. (And how is that logical, that being burned alive isn’t even that bad?) “Screw you,” he manages, somehow, through the flames that bloomed inside his mouth the second it opened and the panting breaths he’s taken on.

Lucifer tuts. “Oh, Sammy, it’s not going to be that easy. This is my domain, you know, my Cage. I can do whatever I want to you in here. It’s going to take more than some pithy words to get me to stop.” He snaps and the flames burn hotter, enticing another shout from Sam. “Good times. Hey, let’s roast marshmallows!” 

There’s a sense of pushing, a mental shove, and Cas finds himself back in the motel room, hand no longer to Sam’s forehead and instead standing in front of the bed where Sam was, the younger Winchester now backed up to the point where he’s off the bed. “Woah, hey, kiddo,” Dean says, the old nickname bubbling to the surface before he gets the chance to think about it. “Cas? What happened?” 

But he doesn’t answer, only stares at the man on the bed as he winces and Cas can only suspect, can only imagine what it’s really like in there. Sure, he can force himself into Sam’s mind (forget about the permission, it still feels intrusive because Sam didn’t want him there, shoved him out once it was too much) but that doesn’t mean he knows everything. What he’s gotten, though, is more than enough. 

“Cas,” Dean prompts again, hand on Sam’s shoulder as the younger gives Cas an apologetic look, and oh, Sam, don’t do that, Cas doesn’t need any apology, he should be the one to apologize, but Sam’s eyes are so sad and sincere, and Cas doesn’t think about the Cage and the fire and the feeling of his skin melting off of his bones— 

“He, uh.” (He needs a second to get his thoughts in order.) “I think his mind, it’s still going through everything, so Sam’s constantly shifting from memory to memory, and when one becomes too much for him, he shoves it away and moves to the next one.” 

“He’s not processing anything to the level his brain needs to?” Dean asks, simplifying. 

“Essentially. I told you this before, but with the hallucinations, that was his brain not processing everything properly and doing that to cope. I took that away, so his brain was forced to face it head-on when it wasn’t ready. Sam still can’t handle them, so he keeps skipping around them, and if they’re too much to skip, he goes into one of his…” 

“Right,” Dean interrupts. “What you’re saying is, there’s nothing we can do.” 

Cas presses his lips together. “Yes.” 

“Yes, there’s something we can do, or yes, I’m right?” 

“The latter. Sam will just have to do this on his own.” 

Dean shakes his head. “No, no way, there has to be something. You just saw him, Sam isn’t functioning right now—” 

“Sam is right here,” said Winchester interrupts, glaring at Dean. “We’re not going to make any progress if you just talk about me like I’m not in the room with you. I need to be involved in this. It’s my mind.” 

“Of course,” Cas agrees. “Sorry.” 

Sam waves him off, like he often does, and focuses on Dean. “There’s nothing to do, Dean. You know that. This isn’t something that can just be healed. It’s not like it’s a medical issue, this is the kind of shit people go to therapy for. I’m not hallucinating, not anymore, but…” 

“Sammy—” 

“If I start again, I’m legally insane. I couldn’t tell _him_ from _reality,”_ Sam snaps. “I was _legally insane._ I am not in my right mind, and I’m a danger to the people around me.” 

Dean blows out a rough breath. “Don’t say that.” 

“It’s the truth, isn’t it? We don’t know how bad it’s going to get, Dean, I could hurt you. I don’t know how I react when I’m in the middle of them, it’s just me, and the Cage, and _him._ There’s nothing I can do to stop that. I might hurt you,” Sam says, and he’s making those eyes again, bright with tears and not hope, dulled from insurmountable pain and grief that no human should have to face. 

Then Dean’s doing it again. That hugging thing that they do and he’s whispering into Sam’s ear and telling him that they’ll figure it out, it’ll be okay, just breathe, Sammy, breathe, you’re going to be okay, don’t you dare think anything different and Sam is crying and Dean is too though he won’t admit it and Cas very, very quietly removes himself from the room to think again about if angels can cry and if (why) they can’t why can’t they because Cas needs to feel something real. 

They move up to Rufus’ cabin in Whitefish, Dean driving the Impala with Sam next to him and Cas in the back, his wings pressing uncomfortably against the seats, but there wasn’t anything that would get him to leave the Winchesters right now. (They get through it with only a few hitches where Sam needs to take a second and figure out what’s real and Dean can only focus on Sam then, but it’s mostly a smooth ride.) Dean says that he and Sam stayed there for a few weeks with Bobby after the older hunter’s house was burned to a shell and that it’s a safe place as any, tucked away and obviously protected. Cas notices the salt line by the door, probably more out of habit than anything because there really isn’t much out there that can hurt Sam worse right now than his own mind. 

Over the next few days, Sam will pause and look blankly at them; Cas can almost see the hellfire in his eyes. He’ll stop speaking in the middle of a sentence and beg in Enochian; the meaning of the words practically stabs Cas in the chest every time and he says nothing to Dean. He has nightmares that shake Dean though the older won’t say anything; Cas wants nothing more than to be strong for the both of them but he can feel himself splitting under his portion of the weight they all carry. 

However, Dean talks to him, not just Sam. He talks about his “Beautiful Mind” brother and opens up to Cas in a way he’s never seen before. (It’s strange, he notes, how tragedy causes people to open up as much as it closes some of them off. He’s seen both Sam and Dean shut down more times than he can even count, but not once can he recall either of them opening up to him on quite this level. He’s had, what, three years with them? And through that much time he’s been ready to make Dean the vessel of Michael, felt Lucifer, wearing Sam’s bodyfaceeverything turn him into a fine, bloody mist, betrayed Sam and Dean in the worst way he can imagine, and took down the only thing keeping Sam sane. (Plus died and left and abandoned them and let the Leviathans loose on the world but they don’t talk about that.) But still, they trust him, somehow, and he lets Dean talk and doesn’t interrupt unless Dean gives him this silent cue so that he doesn’t have to keep talking because then, he knows, Dean will reveal something that shouldn’t be said to Cas.) “He’s strong,” Dean repeats, over and over and over again. “He’s so fucking strong.” 

In another room, Sam only allows guttural yells to tear from his throat once it becomes too much. He’s trying to stay quiet, keep his pain under wraps for Dean’s sake. The older brother doesn’t flinch like Sam does at loud noises (and isn’t that a whole story Cas will never get to unpack, he doesn’t know exactly why it is that Sam’s shoulders jump and he closes his eyes for a second at even a door closing, even when he’s expecting it. He can only suspect it’s from his years of— though neither Winchester will admit it —trauma that were accrued that causes it, but Cas just wants to know exactly how long it’s been going on like this and who else has noticed, if Dean has, if Bobby had, if anyone they’ve been around have because it happens far more often than Cas wants to see) but instead takes deep breaths, listening to see how desperate it gets, not that Cas can tell himself. There can be no changes to Sam’s voice to Cas, but clearly there’s _something_ so subtle that’ll cause Dean to go running to him. It’s only further proof of their bond, and Cas starts trying to listen for whatever it is because Dean can’t live like this forever, no matter how willing he is to. 

(This isn’t Cas trying to take his place, no way, never. Sam and Dean have always been just that, Sam and Dean, and Cas knows that there isn’t a way for either of them to exist without the other because call it loyalty, call it codependency, call it whatever you want but these brothers were bound to each other in 1983 and while those bonds have been tested, put through unimaginable trials that would sever anyone else’s, Cas will not see them broken. Not ever. He’s not trying to take Dean’s place, he just wants to know exactly what it is so that he can help Sam as well. Dean can’t do this on his own. (Sam has to.) It’s not fair, he knows how badly Dean wants to take Sam to a safehouse and _run,_ but when has it ever been for these two?) 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice, rough from talking to Sam. “I’ve got to go out on a supply run, we’re almost out of food. Stay with Sammy, alright? I’m serious, don’t let the kid out of your sight. I don’t know where his head’s at right now; we were talking and then he just spaced out and started mumbling to himself. Enochian,” he adds. 

“Of course, Dean,” Cas replies as Dean runs a hand through his hair. There’s stubble on the man’s chin, proof that he’s been forgoing his own self-care for his little brother. (Though Cas is pretty sure that Sam won’t look much better, it’s not like he’s been able to take care of himself very well lately. Whenever he’s lucid enough to hold a conversation (and that’s happening less and less) he tries to get updates on the Leviathan situation or talk about possible cases, despite there being nothing he can do about any of it.) “Take your time. I know it’s not easy being here right now, with Sam how he is.” 

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter how it is for me. Sam’s got it a hundred times worse and I have to take care of him.” 

“I understand,” Cas concedes. “But you have to take care of yourself.” 

“I can take care of myself after Sam is safe,” Dean snaps back. “He’s been my responsibility since I was four, that’s not something I can just let go.” 

Cas hesitates before nodding. “Right. I apologize.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean says, demeanor changing and relacing his boots before stepping out the door. “You’re going to be okay with him?” 

“Of course.” 

“Alright,” Dean says. “Alright. I’ll be back in half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most.” There’s a pause before he shakes his head to himself and closes it behind him, and Cas can imagine Dean giving the handle a final look as he heads towards the Impala, wondering if he should go back in. But really, Cas has been waiting for this to happen. He needs to talk with Sam. Alone. 

He walks into Sam’s room where he’s on the floor, back to the bed frame with wide eyes and lips bubbling with dead skin and Enochian that Dean doesn’t even try to understand but surely, if he knew… 

(Roughly translated, Sam’s muttering typically run along the lines of pleading for the pain to stop, frantic begging for Lucifer to stop impersonating Bobby-Dad-Mom-Jess-Dean (Cas doesn’t know who Jess is but she seems pretty high up on that list), and sometimes he’ll even say things that Cas is sure is only because it’s what Lucifer wants to hear and not what Sam actually believes. Or so he hopes. Even now, it’s a wad of strung-together paper words, ripping at Sam’s voice as he talks.)

“Sam.” 

“—wouldn’t do that, he’s my brother, there’s no way he would do this, stop pretending to be him—” 

“Sam,” Cas says, more forcefully. 

“—it’s not going to work, I know it’s not him, just stop, stop, it’s not going to work, it’s _not working—”_

“Sam!” 

He flinches, drawing his forearms up so that they frame his face, hands fisting in his hair. “Don’t, please,” he whispers. “I’ll do whatever you want, but don’t, please, I can’t…” 

“I’m not going to hurt you. It’s— I’m not… _him._ It’s Castiel.” 

“Cas?” Sam asks, soft and confused. “But you’re not—” 

“It’s not real, Sam. I promise you. You’re in Rufus’ cabin. Remember?” 

He groans into his arms, which are still up at his face. “I checked out again?” 

“Yes.” 

“Shit, man. I’m so sorry, I was trying to hang on, it’s just…” 

“It’s alright,” he tries to reassure. He’s nowhere close to as comforting as Dean is, can’t even get the words right. “Honestly, it’s commendable. I don’t know of any other human that would be able to deal with this as well as you do.” 

Sam chuckles. “You’ve said that before, I think. Or something like that.” His smile turns sad as he brings his arms down. “Where’s Dean?” 

“Out on a supply run,” Cas answers. 

He nods. “I spaced out on him, didn’t I.” It’s not even a question. “I need to get this under control. I can’t keep going like this, just disappearing from reality whenever my mind decides it’s convenient.” 

“Your mind is under intense pressure. You should let it rest as much as you can,” Cas corrects. “I know it’s not pleasant for you, but you can’t push yourself so hard.” 

“This isn’t living, Cas,” Sam returns. There’s no bite to his words, just stale ideas he’s clearly been holding onto for a very long time. “I’m not even here, half the time. Like, my body is, but my head isn’t. It’s floating. Above everything else because it can’t handle being here. Or,” he says, this more to himself, “technically, below.” 

(And Sam was trapped in Hell, Sam was in the Cage, for a year and a half here but nearly two centuries down there and humans are supposed to age and grow old and die but that can’t happen in the Cage because that’s Lucifer’s domain and whatever Lucifer wants he gets so Sam was there and was tortured constantly and won’t ever talk about it unless he’s forced to by his nightmares and flashbacks and screams because that’s who Sam is, he doesn’t want to bother anyone with his problems even though he shouldn’t shoulder them alone and Cas feels so utterly helpless here, where he can’t do anything to heal Sam and his brain is processing more than twice as many memories than any person should have and it’s all just so much, too much, and there isn’t a day that goes by where Cas isn’t reminded of how impossible this should be.) 

He doesn’t reveal to Sam any of the chaos in his own head. They sit in silence until Dean comes back with beer and burgers and manages to get Sam to eat for the first time in two days. 

Apparently, Sam’s condition can only go downhill and all it takes is one slip before he’s pressed against the closest surface that provides protection for his back and his arms are in front of his face and he’s screaming, never pausing for breath because it seems like that’s something he’s had practice in. Dean literally has to leave the room one time and Cas can hear him yelling and throwing things outside as he tries to get close enough to Sam to knock him out. It’s tough on him, but he can only imagine how Dean feels, watching Sam get like this. In the times where he is present, Cas can still tell he’s holding off memories and counting down seconds until he disappears again and he knows that Sam is afraid that he won’t come back. 

It’s a rare evening of relative peace, where Sam is sitting at the table of them looking all mild and a little haggard but with those dull eyes that tell them all something is coming and it’s not going to be good. Dean finally managed to figure out the little radio they have in here and it’s tuned to a classic rock station as he comes in with a takeout bag, obviously with burgers and fries and a salad for Sam because he stopped eating meat a week ago. 

Cas doesn’t recognize any of the music, but Sam’s body tenses up unconsciously as the song changes. Dean doesn’t notice until it heads into the chorus and then his head snaps up so fast he should get whiplash, but instead he’s all but sprinting over to Sam, who’s curling into himself and his hands are shaking so badly there’s no way he can even grab onto Dean as he places an arm around Sam’s neck. His whole body is trembling. “Fuck, okay, kiddo, come on. That was years ago, and I’m right here.” To Cas, “the radio. Turn it off. Right now.” 

The song playing is dragging out the words, _“it was the heat of the moment,”_ and Cas doesn't know what’s so wrong with it but he turns off the radio but Sam lurches out of his seat to stagger to the bathroom, Dean’s hand on his back, and the sound of vomiting cuts through the air. 

“Okay, okay, hey. You’re okay. Sam, look at me,” Dean says, his words soft but enough for Cas to hear them. “You’re okay. That was years ago. Four, to be exact. And remember, Gabriel’s dead.” 

“Lucifer,” Sam gasps back, breath hitching. “Lucifer.” 

“What do you— don’t tell me.” A pause. “Shit, Sam, really?” 

“Fuck” is Sam’s only response. 

Cas can almost see the look on Dean’s face. Worried, certainly, and he’s sure there’s fury peeking through. “What did my brother do?” he asks softly, getting closer to the two of them. 

Dean has a hand on the back of Sam’s neck, holding his hair away from his face as he dry-heaves. “We were in Broward County, Florida, four years back. Gabriel trapped Sam in a time loop, three months, right?” 

“Nine,” Sam manages. 

“Right. One hundred Tuesdays, then six months,” Dean says. “Messed him up for a while afterwards. Sammy, is it okay if I tell him?”

Sam sits back on his heels, letting himself fall against the wall and nodding as Dean grabs a towel and wets it in the sink before handing it to Sam, who presses it to his face. “He kept killing me. Every day. For one hundred days. Then, Sam finally made it to Wednesday and he killed me again, then made Sam live for six months without me.” 

“Hell,” Sam reminds him. 

“Right. It was back before I went to Hell and time was ticking, so after the loop, Sam spent as much time watching me die as I was supposed to have with him. Gabriel said he was trying to teach him a lesson, but all he did was succeed in making the kid even more clingy. Sam, you okay?” 

“Yeah, I just. Need a minute.” 

“So before I raised you—” 

“—from perdition, yes,” Dean says. “Sam woke up to that song every Tuesday. Doesn’t have a good relationship with it anymore.” 

Cas nods, processing the information. “And now it causes… this.” 

“Essentially,” Dean replies. 

“And Lucifer—” 

“Took inspiration.” Sam, this time. “Kept doing doing doing _doing_ it and wouldn’t stop.” 

“What the fuck else did he do, Sam?” Dean asks. “I don’t care what it was, but you’ve got to tell me, man. I can’t help you if I don’t know what to look out for.” 

And Sam buries his head in Dean’s neck as he crouches next to his brother and whispers for an hour. Cas leaves after that, but he suspects it keeps going. 

(He is an Angel of the Lord. He should have stopped this. 

There was nothing he could do. 

He still should have tried.) 

A tear slips down the cheek of his vessel and Cas feels everything for a split second before it’s gone and he’s left with nothing except for a spark, one that can only destroy and not mend, never fix. 

(There’s some symbolism in there, he knows, but right now he’s focused on that lightning flash of feeling and if this what being human is like— 

_How do any of them function?)_


End file.
